


He's Mine Now

by one_blue_eye



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Conversations, Awkwardness, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Developing Mycroft Holmes/John Watson, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Flirting, Jealous Sherlock, John Watson is Holmes-sexual, M/M, Morning After, Multi, Mycroft is Naughty, Mycroft's Meddling, Polyamory Negotiations, Poor John, Porn With Plot, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Shameless Smut, Slash, Slow Burn, Smut, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism, Why does he always get himself into these situations?, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 22:04:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_blue_eye/pseuds/one_blue_eye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John stumbles out of bed and walks into another staring contest between Sherlock and his brother, Mycroft Holmes. It's the first time he's seen Mycroft since 'that night'.</p><p>For a preview of the podfic go to: http://onexbluexeye.livejournal.com/3302.html</p><p>Please note that this fic is on temporary haiatus while I'm undergoing cancer treatments. Thanks for your understanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [And Then There Were Two](https://archiveofourown.org/works/555827) by [lockedin221b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>   
> 
> John stumbles out of bed and walks into another staring contest between Sherlock and his brother, Mycroft Holmes. It's the first time he's seen Mycroft since 'that night'.
> 
>     
> Chapter 1 Tag Cloud

**HE MADE IT DOWN** to nearly the bottom rung before realizing they had company. He groaned softly and squeezed his eyes shut before murmuring a quiet, " _Mycroft,_ " in greeting.  It was both obvious and unsurprising that his presence was noted long before he’d noted theirs. Both eyes were already on him before he'd uttered a word. 

 

He'd crawled out of bed only moments before, probably slammed the bathroom door behind him quite loudly before groaning into a long satisfying piss, which they'd probably noted as well. Privacy's a rare thing in 221B Baker Street, especially in the presence of both Holmes.

 

John met Sherlock's eyes and in return received a raised brow and an infinitesimal smile, which was not unusual as a form of greeting. Sherlock routinely managed to convey a great deal with a simple look and today was no exception. However, their lingering gaze was interrupted by Mycroft's delayed reply. He inclined his head solemnly and said, " _J-o-h-n_ ," in that silken-extended-meaning-laden way that he has. An unexpected tingling heat ran up John’s spine, causing his eyes to nearly flutter shut and yet another inward groan. 

 

He grimaced and managed a quiet, sarcastic, "Right.  Great," each punctuated with a sharp final letter and slight shake of his head. He gripped the banister tightly before pushing off the last step. 

 

Sherlock narrowed his pale eyes suspiciously and looked more closely between his brother and his best friend. He frowned at what he saw there. "John?” he prompted, causing John to stop midstride. He saw tension around John’s eyes, deep creases across his forehead, a telltale stiffness in his shoulders and an unmistakably clenched left fist. The unfamiliar pang that spiked in his gut affirmed the mounting suspicion that he'd just missed something of import as it passed between them. "John? What's... great?" he asked again.

 

John released a sharp exhale through his nose and looked to the heavens, perhaps seeking some moral support before he said, "Oh, you know. Good thing it's not awkward or anything." He shook his head and slunk out of the room with impressive speed.

 

Sherlock shifted in his chair, making ready to follow John into the kitchen, with every intention of demanding an answer that made more sense but Mycroft held up a hand to stay him.

 

**"WAIT," HE SAID** , his voice barely above a whisper, drawing Sherlock's attention immediately.

 

Sherlock pinned him with a stare and demanded, “Explain!” He may have spoken at the same volume but his tone was far more urgent.

 

Mycroft took a few seconds to center his thoughts. Then he began, “Well, we did have sex the last time we saw each other.” He paused just long enough for his words to sink in. He saw Sherlock flinch, reacting to an invisible pain. Then he continued. “He’s probably feeling quite uncomfortable.”

 

Initially, Sherlock reacted with denial, as he usually does. “No, he’s not!” However, within, his Moderator reacted violently to the obvious falsehood. The mental prickling gave rise to the uncontrollable gnashing of teeth. Sherlock could lie to others, that was perfectly acceptable, but he’d long since trained his mind to refute such mendacities when directed at himself. He was forced to look away as Mycroft watched his internal struggle knowingly. With a firm grip on his back teeth he asked, “ _Why_ is he?” He took a soothing breath and then added, “Why would that matter? He’s having sex with me now— _not you_.” To anyone else, his words would have sounded menacing but Mycroft, as always, was nonplussed.

 

“Yes. I understand that Sherlock, but most people form attachments when they have sex. These attachments tend to linger.” Mycroft explained, not unkindly. He kept his voice soft and steady, hopefully providing a calming anchor for Sherlock’s obvious and rising agitation.

 

Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes, as an array of implications flashed painfully before his mind’s eye. His head swung towards the kitchen where John sat with his back to the two of them—ostensibly drinking his tea. Then he turned to Mycroft, his eyes drilling into his. “Have _you_?” he asked quietly.

 

Mycroft sighed, contemplated the merits of lying and then thought better of it. “Yes,” he admitted quietly, “but it doesn’t change anything.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes darkened and narrowed. Then his gaze was drawn inexorably towards the kitchen, where they settled on John’s back. Within, the Judge chimed in, adding unhelpfully, _this is all your fault_.

 

Mycroft watched as his little brother bit his lip. He witnessed a vivid flare of consternation and regret as it twisted and paled Sherlock’s face. It was so unlike him, to show such blatant emotion, that Mycroft took a sharp inward breath.

 

Sherlock turned towards him, snapped “What?!” He frowned, pursed his lips in frustration. He had no idea what he should do. No matter how hard he tried, this was not his area.

 

Mycroft pressed his pity down deep, set a mask upon his face before he asked, “Will you permit me to speak to him privately for a moment?” After a brief silent pause, Sherlock nodded.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft felt his heart rate crest. John was utterly… magnificent. _Oh dear_ , he thought. _This is not going as planned._
> 
>   
>  Chapter 2 Tag Cloud

**AS HE PASSED** over the threshold, from living room to kitchen, there was a slight hitch in his normally confident, collected stride, the one that Mycroft had meticulously honed since he first began to walk [or at least he imagines it started around then]. It was untenable, this situation, this feeling. Such a foul word that— _feeling_. It— _they_ —left him confounded, both the situation and this unfamiliar emotion, which sat heavily, a darkened oily smudge of… _remorse_.  Possibly something more.

 

He would, if it would make any difference, apply the entirety of his vast arsenal of resources to ameliorate their current situation. He felt responsible even though strictly speaking it wasn’t his fault per se. He certainly had a substantial share in the blame [if blame were an investment fund he’d be off on a tropical holiday by now]. If he were honest [which he rarely was— _to others_ ] he might even go so far as to accept that he had inadvertently contributed to Sherlock’s woefully bad judgement with the untimely application of his usual brand of underhanded manipulated. The aforementioned oily smudge played heavily on his mind and that was precisely why he, Mycroft Holmes, had no idea what to say.

 

Part of the problem was that there were too many variables in play. Not that he didn’t usually thrive in that sort of situation. He did. On a daily basis, in fact. It was his _thing_. However, his present situation was confounded by the unique _nature_ of the variables.

 

Personal relationships of the intimate kind were not his area of expertise. He was similar to Sherlock in that respect. Neither one had had any real success with a normal intimate relationship. Mycroft had dabbled—well, more than dabbled—and in doing so had gained a fair amount of knowledge and expertise but none of those experiences were long term and neither were they truly intimate. Because as far as he could tell, true intimacy required honesty and trust. And he had certainly never had either.

 

That was the problem, you see. Too many personal variables with far too many personal ramifications. His actions mattered on a personal level. They would affect the two people he actually cared about.

 

John—kind, loyal, honest John. On his own he was… lovely. In conjunction with Sherlock, his brilliance was only emphasised. He became: John—kind, loyal, honest, brave, dangerous, playful, _sexy_.   Bugger. It mattered.

 

And Sherlock. Brilliant, sharp, dangerous, spectacular, terrifying, childlike, _fragile_.   It mattered.

 

Sherlock may be an expert on human behaviour as it relates to criminal motivations but when it came to his personal life, he was utterly clueless. Not unlike Mycroft.

 

So, into the breach he went. He wrapped the illusion of superior knowledge and confidence around himself like a shark cage, and dove right in. 

 

**“JOHN?**   May I sit?”

 

“Yes.” He sighed. “Of course.”

 

“Perhaps... we had better have a chat.”

 

John swallowed hard, took a sip of milky tea and resolutely avoided Mycroft’s focussed gaze. “If we absolutely must.”

 

There was an extended pause where Mycroft simply observed as John’s hands twitched across the scarred laminate table top and his left leg bounced erratically under the table. “Your discomfort says we do.”

 

John spoke into his cup, “I’ll get over it. Nothing to worry about.” It was unconvincing. Even to his unHolmesian ears.

 

“Sherlock is confused. You are uncomfortable. And I…”

 

John looked up, arched one brow. “Yes?”

 

He took a deep breath. “I… am…”

 

John frowned, his face creasing deeply. _Concern_ , thought Mycroft. He paused, his next words derailed and forgotten in light of John’s unexpected display of emotion. He was fascinating. His face—so honest, so open—was absolutely magnificent. And it was only a tiny sliver of John. For inside, deeper down, in the hidden space, John was all sharp edges and contradictions, always interesting. He knew that _this_ was what Sherlock saw, every moment they spent together, John’s face was an organic tableau, granting a glimpse of his innermost thoughts and emotions. To a Holmes, this was _unspeakably_    tantalizing. He leaned forward fractionally and hoped to hear John confirm his initial reading. “What is it, John?”

 

“Mycroft, I’ve never seen you at a loss for words before.”

 

“Not true,” he answered quickly, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He was right. _Concern_. He was disturbingly pleased by this revelation, that John felt any amount of concern, for him.

 

There was a subtle shift, then John’s concern transformed into confusion.

 

“You rendered me—” his voice caught but he kept his gaze locked on John, “entirely speechless the last time we… saw each other.”

 

It was instantaneous. A deep swirling blush rose, coloring John’s neck and face. He gulped loudly, attempted to say something, form a response but managed only to open and close his mouth soundlessly.

 

Mycroft felt his heart rate crest. John was utterly… magnificent. _Oh dear_ ,  he thought. _This is not going as planned_.  He spoke softly, his voice a mere whisper and a touch deeper than normal.  “I am not unaffected John.”

 

John was a master of nonverbal communication, his face an open book. _Disbelief,_  Mycroft read. And it… hurt.

 

“You don’t believe me,” he declared quietly.

 

John shrugged. “I’m not quite sure. You could be trying to manipulate me. You’ve been known to do that—regularly.” He added with a raised brow. “Or you could be lying. Why, I haven’t a clue. But do you honestly expect me to believe that you are feeling uncomfortable?”

 

A sly smile crept onto Mycroft’s face. “I never said I was uncomfortable John. I said I wasn’t _unaffected_.”

 

That voice. It did things to him. Surprising things. John grappled with his desire to know and his equally strong desire to run the fuck away. Now-ish. Stupidity won out.  “So… you’re what? Affected then?”

 

Mycroft allowed an expression of genuine amusement to color his face and then he said, “ _Quite_.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was surprised by John’s words. He probably shouldn’t have been. It was, after all, the demeanour he steadfastly portrayed. For some reason though, it was important that John know him better so he said, “I’m not a machine, John. I do have feelings. I do feel. I just don’t choose to most of the time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've edited the first two chapters [again] so you may wish to re-read them. I've also started a podfic. There is a link in the description if your interested in checking it out. Hope you are enjoying the story so far.  
> Blue

**JOHN TOOK A** steadying breath, a sip and then another breath before he asked, “Could you do me a favour?”

 

Mycroft waited patiently for him to continue. He watched as John willed his breathing under control. He watched as his eyes flared wide and then narrowed; as the fine facial muscles twitched under his skin, as his too honest body betrayed him. Irritation, frustration and arousal skittered across his face—for Mycroft, it was undeniable evidence of a losing battle being fought within.

 

“Could you just speak plainly for once? I’ve been awake for less than a bloody hour. I don’t have the energy to deal with one of our usual cryptic conversations.”

 

“That is precisely the point, John,’ Mycroft countered, sounding far too reasonable, “this is nothing like our usual conversations. This situation is most certainly unique.”

 

John grimaced and inclined his head slightly. “Mmm. I guess you do have a point.” He sighed.

 

“You want me to speak plainly, yes?” he asked and waited for John to nod. “Then I will.” He took a deliberate breath. “Sherlock is concerned that you and I have developed feelings for one another. I believe he is worried that he will lose you to me.”

 

His heart jerked in his chest, he swore it did. While he struggled with that unnerving sensation, his skin started cooking from the inside out. It was only a matter of time until he started shivering. It was shock, he realized, mild as it was. Ridiculous. And yet… not entirely surprising considering the company that he kept. Still, John prided himself on his ability to remain cool under fire and it was an uncomfortable blow to bear at such an ungodly hour. John covered his seething face with both hands before swearing under his breath, “Jesus, Mycroft.”

 

“You asked me to—“

 

“Yes—Yes—I _know_ ,” he cut him off, hands still covering his eyes. Palpable tension was strung between them, thick and raw. “Christ, Mycroft.  I don’t even know what to say to that…”

 

Mycroft nodded silently, then realized John’s eyes were firmly closed so he added, “I understand, John.” His voice was soft and sympathetic.

 

Mycroft waited for what seemed like an eternity, listening to John breathe until his palms slid down his face and he finally uncovered his eyes. “Do you?” He asked quietly, still looking at the table.

 

Mycroft remained silent and still, feeling a little trapped.

 

John reached down, not too very far from the surface, found the stillness that comes when danger is afoot and with unerring bravery lifted his head. When finally their eyes met, Mycroft was pleased to find a gentle smile and kindness on John’s open, honest face.

 

He may have smiled back. He must have because John’s face shifted, he began searching and his eyes took on a familiar intensity. He saw behind them a determined struggle to understand.

 

He wasn’t usually on the receiving end of this particular gaze. It was unnerving, seeing John look at him with eyes usually reserved for Sherlock.

 

What John saw there, Mycroft couldn’t say for certain but whatever it was must have given him away because John licked his lips nervously and then asked, his voice almost a whisper, “Have you?”

 

When Mycroft met his eyes, his face was blank, relaxed even. He only hesitated briefly before answering. Prevarication wasn’t an option. Not today.  “Yes… John. I. Have.” His voice was almost preternaturally gentle. It made John’s gut clench, among other things.

 

There was a quick intake of breath and then John asked, “What am I supposed to do with that?” He sounded agonized. “I don’t have a switch. I’m not like you. Or him. I can’t do that.”

 

 **MYCROFT PULLED OUT** the chair opposite John and sat down quietly, a slight frown on his face now, as he mulled over his thoughts. He was surprised by John’s words. He probably shouldn’t have been. It was, after all, the demeanour he steadfastly portrayed. For some reason though, it was important that John know him better so he said, “I’m not a machine, John. I do have feelings. I do feel. I just don’t choose to most of the time.”

 

John sighed and shook his head. “Sometimes, I envy you.”

 

“Why is that?” Mycroft asked carefully.

 

“I’d like to be able to do that. Choose not to feel. I wish it were that simple.”

 

Mycroft nodded in understanding. “Our situation is not simple, as I’m sure you know, John. Sherlock made a decision and now he regrets it. At the time, he believed it was the best course of action.”

 

“Well, he’s a complete idiot sometimes!” John said sharply.

 

Mycroft smirked and gave a tight nod. “Yes, he is.”

 

John let his hands fall to his lap and then he leaned forward. When he spoke, it was just above a whisper and to an onlooker his body language would’ve suggested they were a pair of conspirators. “I knew at the time, you know? But I did it anyways. To teach him a lesson I think.” He huffed, and then added, “Kind of backfired though, didn’t it?” Shaking his head, he pursed his lips and chuckled darkly.

 

Mycroft tapped a fingernail against the table top, arched a brow and then agreed wryly, “Yes, a bit.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Fuck, that voice. The way he says my name. It’s like he’s…still touching me_ …   The memory of his hands, their hands, their mouths, their bodies still hovered in his mind, mingled with the present, always overlapping. He hadn’t forgotten, hadn’t been able to. Every time they said his name like that, it brought him right back into the thick of it. 

**HE GROANED** **WITH**  frustration. “What… what am I supposed to do then?”

 

When Mycroft spoke, he sounded like his confident self even though he didn’t feel it. “What do you _want_ to do?”

 

“I don’t know.” He paused for thought. “Get rid of this… this feeling for one.”

 

“What feeling is that, _J-o-h-n_?”

 

_Fuck, that voice. The way he says my name. It’s like he’s…still touching me_ …   The memory of his hands, their hands, their mouths, their bodies still hovered in his mind, mingled with the present, always overlapping. He hadn’t forgotten, hadn’t been able to. Every time they said his name like that, it brought him right back into the thick of it. A scorching blush rose up the back of John’s neck. He took a ragged breath and then said, “I’m. Em… embarrassment for starters.” He cleared his throat. “Ashamed… I feel ashamed. I’m crawling out of my skin here.”

 

Something inside Mycroft recoiled, as if struck by the barbed lash of a poisoned whip: the searing look in John’s  eyes, the honestly in his words, the raw sound of his voice, the pain in it. He took a slow even breath. It gave him time to collect himself, to relax his shoulders, to ease the lines of his face, to still his racing heart. He hadn’t considered that. _Hurting John_.  Why hadn’t he anticipated that? That wasn’t the plan. Just the opposite in fact.

 

He used the stolen moment wisely. In the time it took to take that silent breath in and out he had time to stall his body’s insistent demand, that over-riding instinctive drive for self-preservation in the face of an imminent threat of pain, even if it was merely emotional. Most would be hard pressed to control these hard wired physiological reflexes; a flinch, a blink, a gasp, a sharp defensive pull of the arm, a little jump, widened eyes, all those little irresistible things that the body does when it perceives danger.

 

Not so for a Holmes. It was explained, made perfectly clear, that this was not necessarily true for them. Mummy had been quite clear on that point. They had practiced as children, a grand game, an elaborate game, of physiological chicken. Internally, Mycroft had referred to it as ‘Don’t Flinch’ for a time. He often wondered what Sherlock had called it. They never spoke of it, never had to. They’d always played it. The game was never not on. Even now.

 

But John was hurt, in pain, and he felt like it was happening to _him_. Something was wrong. That hadn’t happened in a very long time.

 

“What can I do, John? To help.” Mycroft gripped his clenched fists together tightly, resting hidden on his lap under the table, his whitened knuckles started to cramp. It was painfully obvious that John was having his own internal struggle. His face was twisted in a grimace, his eyes tightly shut, curled fists pressed against his temples.

 

Mycroft nodded tightly, silently willing his heart back into his chest and the tension from his body. If Sherlock was watching—and there was no doubt that he was—he would have seen the subtle shift in Mycroft’s demeanor, the abnormally sharp slant to his shoulders and the fractional tightening of his jaw. He expected a suspicious Sherlock, and rightly so, to burst through the doorway at any moment.

 

If he were a regular person, those few tiny tells would be glaring to an observant onlooker. But he wasn’t, was he? He was a Holmes. And John, however lovely, was normal. So John hardly noticed.

 

John was silent for a long moment. Then with a slightly desperate edge he asked, “Can we just act normal?” He ran a hand through his already tangled hair. He looked hopeful.

 

Mycroft nodded, his chin dipped slowly. There was a subtle lift of the brow and then he said, “We can do that, _yes_.” He watched as John swallowed down a dry throat. “Will that work for you?” he asked carefully.

 

John let out a doubtful snort. “Probably not. But I’ll give it a go.”

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **“ALL RIGHT,”** Mycroft agreed warmly. Something in him, something unfamiliar, made him _want_ to make John happy. He hoped this would do just that.

**“ALL RIGHT,”** Mycroft agreed warmly. Something in him, something unfamiliar, made him _want_ to make John happy. He hoped this would do just that. However, he was troubled when John averted his gaze. He wanted to lean forward, touch John’s hand, hold him, just one more time. But he couldn’t do that again. That was not the task set before him. Instead, he pitched his voice just so and said, “John?” He waited until he raised his chin “You have nothing to be ashamed of.” It was soft, barely audible and it stirred something in John’s chest.

 

Mycroft was not like John. His internal struggle was not written plainly on his face and body for anyone to see, not usually, not as a rule, not since he was ten or so. But in John’s presence, it was easier somehow, to be less… himself. He’d seen evidence of the same in his little brother but only in John’s presence. Their mother would enjoy this immensely. She’d scoff, of course, at their apparent lack of self-control but eventually she’d soften. Once she’d met John, once she knew, once she understood, she’d approve.

 

That was a meeting he’d need to manage precisely. He pushed the thought away, a worry for another day.

 

John was not appeased by Mycroft’s reassurances, no matter how heartfelt they seemed. He was well and truly ashamed. He felt he should be. He cringed as a wave of nausea swept through his gut and when he spoke, it was hard and angry. “I had sex with you and your brother. At the same time! You’re brothers for Christ’s sake!” However, the unspoken message was clear: _and I liked it. A lot._  John was suffocating under an overwhelming weight of burning shame and desire; his skin felt tight and cracked. _I’ve stood in the fire,_ he thought. _What did I expect?_  He thought it might be possible to see the waves of heat rising off of his flushed skin. 

 

Mycroft looked carefully as John squirmed. He heard the unspoken truth. It rang out clear and sharp, as if John had spoken the words aloud. _Damn_ , he thought, _that doesn’t help matters one bit. I did too._ Their eyes met, John’s were furtive. He held his gaze for a moment before he had to look away. He was talking to a Holmes. He knew he was being read to the core.

 

John shook his head and his eyelids slid shut. His skin was still flushed, due to embarrassment or lust, he wasn’t sure. He needed to change, he needed a shower. He was uncomfortably sweaty and desperately wanted to run away. To where? _Sherlock’s room—just like before._ The realization sent his heart racing.

 

Mycroft allowed his eyes to roam over John’s body. He told himself that his motivations were innocuous. He followed John’s inner conflict as it passed within and as it was displayed for all to see. He marvelled at the pure display of honesty, at his genuineness. He was uncontrollably drawn to him while being completely baffled—to be so guileless, to be so innocent—what a luxury. John was painfully aroused and his overall level of physical tension was nearing a dangerous pitch. It needed to be deflected otherwise John would need to move. And he wasn't finished with him just yet.  

 

The depth of his interest, of his need must have somehow slipped through his cleverly constructed mask because suddenly his own emotions were being reflected back at him on John’s expressive face. He saw John’s shock—his want—his lust—then shame—guilt—and fear—all in the blink of an eye.

 

Now, need and lust he could recognize but the others were not his and they were not something he wanted John to feel. He considered his next move, immediately discarded a polished subtle approach and decided to be blunt. “You’d like to do that again, I see.” He nodded and hummed when John turned an even darker shade of red.

 

 **THEY WERE BOTH**  startled when Sherlock all but exploded through the archway shrieking, “Mycroft! This is not what you’re supposed to be doing!”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prospect of losing John now seemed catastrophic. Now that he had him. Now that he was his.

**THEY WERE BOTH**   startled when Sherlock all but exploded through the archway shrieking, “Mycroft! That’s not what you’re supposed to be doing!”

* * *

**IT WAS SINGULARLY CHILLING**. His voice was a heavily entangled wave full of layers of pain and fear and desperation. He’d bared his soul momentarily, exposed himself through the purest form of emotion. The shriek ricocheted off of John’s clammy flesh and left him wincing in sympathetic pain. He was utterly torn between sinking further into his chair and bolting from the room.

 

Mycroft recovered first, shedding his stunned look. “It was merely an observation brother,” he said soothingly. “I meant nothing untoward by it,” he assured him, empty palms stretched out in supplication. “I assure you, a direct approach will be more effective than denial. There’s no sense in trying to pretend there isn’t an elephant in the room.”

 

Sherlock was incensed, his eyes wild and his voice a strangled rush as he insisted, “There aren’t any elephants in the room!” But all three knew it for the lie that it was. Sherlock’s mental Judge battered his mind and accusations echoed through the winding halls of his mind palace. _Lie! Lies! Liar!_

 

“Oh, but there is…” Mycroft asserted.

 

John was quickly approaching his A.M. threshold for emotional turmoil. He begged, “Please…” had to pause when his voice caught in his throat. “Please, just… can we not do this now?  Or ever? Ever would be better.” Try as he might, there was no infusing the situation with humour.

 

 **SHERLOCK REPLIED** , “But you are clearly troubled John.”   _And so am I. And I don’t understand. _Again, the words were left unsaid but they may as well have been shouted from the rooftop. Sherlock wasn’t fooling anyone. He stayed standing, his back pressed up against the wall now, his hands wrapped tightly around his forearms—so tight they were sure to leave bruises. The pain was grounding though; the sharp planes of the wall dug into the flesh on his back and kept him in the here and now, kept him from escaping within. _I need to stay—I need to stop this from happening—again._ He knew if he disappeared, anything could happen. He wanted to speak, to make his case but what should he say? He rarely experienced this problem. He was usually an effective communicator but his intellect—his faithful servant— wasn’t serving him at present. His faculties had all but departed the scene. So, which words exactly? There were so many.    _But this is John—this is important—this means something—one wrong word…_ The prospect of losing John now seemed catastrophic. Now that he **_had_** him. Now that he was **_his_**. That part of his mind, the angry, self-doubting, self-loathing Judge, it always had something unhelpful to add at moments like these and Sherlock braced for it.   _And you will… you always do… you’re not normal… John wants normal… he won’t want you for long…_ He felt the familiar ache descend upon him as fear bit into him and chased after the snapping downward spiral of despair.

 

_I will say the wrong thing_

_I always make him angry_

_He won’t want me_

_Mycroft is better at this_

_I can’t keep him_

_I don’t know how_

_John will leave_

_I will…_

_No… no… no…_

_I will lose my only friend_

_Please, no…_

_What if… we… go back?_

_To before?_

_We can’t go back—_

_He won’t…_

_Mycroft will…_

_I can’t go back—_

_I need him_

_I want him_

_I…_

_There is no going back—to before._

_Make him forget Mycroft…_

_He. Is. Mine._

_There is no going back!_

_Before is gone… oh god no…_

_John, no…_

_Not Mycroft!_

_I must…_

_I have to…_

_I must make him see!_

_Oh._

_Ah._

_I see._

Sherlock gulped down a lungful of air as he pressed his back up against the wall harder still, easing off only once his vertebrae began resisting. He held his body rigid, held himself back while inside the Other reared its needy little head.  

 

 _Go to him… take him back… fight this… you’re strong enough… you are clever… more than clever… he wants you…you can give him pleasure – excitement – comfort – companionship – just give him everything he wants and he’ll never leave you…_  

 

But how many times had following this one’s advice got him into trouble? How many times had John himself scolded him for following the Other’s guidance? It was always, “A bit not good, Sherlock.” He hesitated, not wanting to make the situation any worse.

 

Mycroft was watching him, closely. _His eyes see._ They could see his fear, his confusion, his apprehension, and worst of all they could see his belated revelation. _There’s no going back._

 

Mycroft flicked his eyes towards Sherlock and John felt compelled to do the same. He turned in his chair and his gaze settled on a portrait of tension and nervous energy. He looked about ready to take off. Sherlock had the look of a wild thing—trapped—a wide-eyed crystal gleam sparked by the awareness of its impending death—by a predator’s hand or a gun—as the case may be. Sherlock trembled against the wall, like a frightened deer. He felt a cold hard muzzle pressing against his temple, his heart, his sanity. Losing John would be worse than death. How had it taken him so long to see?

 

He’d plead if he had to. If it would make a difference, he’d do it in a heartbeat. He wouldn’t even hesitate. He kept it at the ready, as a viable option.

 

John slid out of his chair, stood and then immediately took those few steps between them. He placed a warm, comforting hand on his shoulder. At first contact, warmth began seeping into Sherlock’s skin and John felt a series of muscles twitch in response. Greedy little neurons sighed and hummed when they got what they’d been craving. Finally… John’s touch. They seemed to know what he needed better than he did. He leaned into the touch, gasping for more, for it to never stop being his, being given, being possible.

 

All at once, his hopes, his fears and a desperate need collided with the **_knowing_**  and he was overcome. Sherlock stood, a straight, taut bow, straining inexorably towards John. At last, when it felt like the tension trapped in his body couldn’t possibly coil any tighter, his struggle for words reached its end. A terrible groan escaped from between his lips, and then a few seconds passed before he gasped, “ _John_ ,” he said, “John… _please_.” Only he had no idea what he was asking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited: 09/09/2013


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a tension racking Sherlock’s body. It was coiling, turning in on its self, building, speeding up, but with nowhere to go. It was really only a matter of time.

**THEIR EYES MET AND LOCKED**.  John’s eyes flickered briefly, blinking away a suspicious well of moisture. He shifted closer and in a low rumbly caress he said, “Sherlock… come here,” his voice breaking slightly at the end. In an instant, Sherlock pushed off the punishing wall and leaned into him. At first, there was barely any contact between them, only their clothing touched. It wasn’t until Sherlock slowly pressed his hard chest against John’s that matching sighs finally mingled in the space between them.  John ran his heated palms down Sherlock’s upper arms at a soothing pace, carefully maintaining contact. John waited patiently for Sherlock to melt into him, for the stiff chilly limbs to wrap around him. Long slender fingers snaked around his sides, brushed reverently over his ribs, and continued their journey until they were overlapping firmly and locked across his back. Sherlock managed to move ever closer until John was completely sheathed in Sherlock flavoured flesh.

 

Mycroft watched with rapped attention, as they seemed to shift states before his very eyes, as the distance between them dissolved and two separate beings were transformed into one overlapping entity occupying a single space. He felt his stomach clench as need and want and sense memory assailed him. Still, he forced his eyes to remain open, determined to work through this… encounter.   _Pain is good,_ he reminded himself. He dug down deep, tried to push the tangle of emotion away, tried to call upon his intellect only. _The pain is pure… it’s a reminder that you’re still alive. Oh, but what a lonely way to live,_ his heart echoed back at him.

 

He stood back, at a safe distance, giving Sherlock the space he so obviously needed. He loved his little brother; he had no desire to cause him any unnecessary pain. As with everyone, there would be plenty of painful experiences in his future and there was no need to make this delicate situation be one of them.

 

But… the ache was expanding, threatening to consume him. It was a sharp, miserable puncture. He could feel the wound’s edge stretch and tear, feel it throb like a rotting tooth or a tender nerve left exposed to the unforgiving elements. It was certainly not something he relished living with for any length of time.

 

They hung there, in that tiny kitchen, the three of them, entangled and silent for a long hazy moment; John, so kind and patient; Sherlock, so obviously in pain and confused and Mycroft, torn and full of longing.

 

They stood like that for several long moments until finally Sherlock bent low and slid into the crook of John’s neck, his mouth seeking the warm sensitive flesh just below his ear. He inhaled deeply, needing to be surrounded by John in every way. Lips and tongue teased while he greedily collected a sampling of the taste of John’s skin. He took another deep breath as he dragged the tip of his nose from ear to shoulder, allowing the warm familiar scent of tea and sandalwood to flow through his nasal cavity down into his lungs until he was saturated with it. With his hands, the tips of his fingers, he explored every square millimetre of exposed skin within reach. And when that wasn’t enough, he slid his hands underneath the edge of John’s battered t-shirt.

 

Sherlock’s fingertips brushed the sensitive skin at John’s waist, drawing an involuntary gasp from between those well-bitten lips and an automatic shifting of his legs. As soon as he felt the shift in weight that allowed John to spread his legs wider apart, Sherlock filled the space, slotting his hips snugly between John’s thighs. Heat continued to steadily pool in his groin at the insistent nudge of Sherlock’s prick against his own and his breathing sped up at the increasingly intimate touch. Sensory overload left John feeling rather light-headed.

 

Throughout this silent interchange, John touched Sherlock with care. He stroked along the length of Sherlock’s back, over each knobby vertebra, he gently caressed the nape of his neck, leaving a trail of neural sparks. Every touch provided a rock solid anchor that Sherlock gratefully latched onto. But it wasn’t enough. He needed _more_. He needed John inside of him.

 

The silence stretched on longer than expected. It was unnerving and for Sherlock, fraught with mental screams. John could almost hear the frantic, racing thoughts undoubtedly terrorizing Sherlock’s mind. There was a tension racking Sherlock’s body. It was coiling, turning in on its self, building, speeding up, but with nowhere to go. It was really only a matter of time.

 

First, there was a sort of low growl and it was as if something had just snapped inside of Sherlock because he pressed forward and suddenly John found himself being manhandled across the room. There was a tangle of limbs, an aggressive tango of sorts, which ended with his back pressed up against the thin strip of wall next to the fridge.

 

Sherlock grabbed a hold of John's face with both hands, kissed him once and it was hard and wet and more than a little desperate. He kept his eyes wide open throughout the brutal kiss and his gaze never wavered.

 

John tried to keep his eyes open too, but he was overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the kiss. They slipped closed eventually without his realizing it had happened. Regardless, even with his eyes closed, he could feel the scorching heat of Sherlock’s intense gaze. It felt like he was being devoured whole and it left him gasping. It was a very convincing kiss, one that made John forget, momentarily, that they were not alone.

 

John let out a groan when Sherlock shifted from his lips and started trailing open-mouthed kisses down the left side of his neck. He still had one hand wrapped around John’s jaw holding him steady while the other started dipping under the waistband of his pyjamas, where questing fingers began searching out the swell of his arse.

 

Having his eyes closed made it easier to ignore the elephant in the room, for a time. John wanted to pretend that it was a perfectly normal snog. He wanted to, oh did he ever. Maybe if he kept his eyes closed? Christ, but he wanted to. His body was quite willing to go along with the illusion. He allowed himself to float mindlessly for a time, living in the moment, feeling every touch, drinking in every single moan and gasp. Then there was a particularly provocative lathing combined with a rather timely grinding of their nether regions and his eyes flew open. It was all perfectly lovely, divine in fact, except Mycroft was standing directly across the table.  And then they were eye to eye.

 

To say that Mycroft was ‘watching them with rapt attention’ would have been semantically insufficient on so many levels as to be completely meaningless. He was poised. His body a spring-loaded whip, held in place by the sheer force of his will. His eyes were dark, lust blown pools of… well, lust. His hands were gripped together and pressed furiously against his sternum, white knuckles and all. But the worst, most damming evidence of his loss of composure was the disgraceful little beads of sweat standing defiantly across his brow and temples.

 

Their eyes locked over Sherlock’s shoulder, while he continued to ravage John’s exposed flesh with his mouth and hands. In the grand scheme of things, it was unlikely that he was unaware of this fact.   _That manipulative bastard,_   thought John. Even so, he was unable to look away. The raw unadulterated desire contained in Mycroft’s face was unavoidably stirring. That and the feel of Sherlock's cock against his own, obviously hard and hot,  sent a string of little shocks up and down his spine and left a burgeoning pool of spinning pressure in his groin.

 

However, after several sustained moments filled with bursts of uncontrollable whimpering that may or may not have come from John’s mouth, it started to unnerve John more than a little. He tried very hard to ignore that in favor of Sherlock’s tongue, which was doing really lovely things to the skin just below his ear.

 

He was just about to shift their positions when Sherlock suddenly rumbled into John’s ear, “Stay… still… ” and then promptly dropped down to his knees.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JOHN MADE A SOFT WHINE, deep in his throat, but stayed still, trembling with the effort. “Fuck – Sherlock. You can’t… don’t… ahh… ohhh… Sherlock… fuck.” His eyes rolled in ways that were surely unattractive as the weight of the situation made it’s self known. His mind was racing, desperate to keep up. Which once again, John thought Sherlock would certainly have predicted. He was anticipating John’s reactions and adjusting accordingly. He had to stop, he knew it. They all knew it. But it was becoming increasingly difficult by the moment.

**JOHN MADE A SOFT WHINE** , deep in his throat, but stayed still, trembling with the effort. “ _Fuck_ – Sherlock. You can’t… don’t… _ahh_ … _ohhh_ … Sherlock… _fuck_.” His eyes rolled in ways that were surely unattractive as the weight of the situation made it’s self known. His mind was racing, desperate to keep up. Which once again, John thought Sherlock would certainly have predicted. He was anticipating John’s reactions and adjusting accordingly. He had to stop, he knew it. They all knew it. But it was becoming increasingly difficult by the moment.

 

John was bare-chested now, his shirt having been discarded rather brutally only moments ago by a very impatient Sherlock. Which was why, and only why, Mycroft had noticed the way his skin had flushed a lovely, albeit blotchy, dusty-rose colour. He did not linger over the taut little buds either. And he most certainly did not memorize the way John’s collarbone shifted under his scared, slightly golden skin as his chest heaved, in and out. As though locked on target, Mycroft’s eyes followed the trail being carved out by Sherlock’s cruel little mouth as he made his way across John’s stomach, kissing, licking and biting. He definitely noticed the latter as each and every one reliably forced a series of exquisite noises out of John’s chest—deep, guttural sounds. Those, Mycroft did commit to memory.

 

Sherlock ran his nose along the crease of John’s thigh, with just enough pressure from his cheek to drag over his earnest cock. Over his pyjamas, it was frustratingly light. Just enough to make him want more. Just enough to make him forget about stopping. Sherlock’s hands snaked around his hips and only stopped once they’d reached the crease of his arse. He gripped John’s arse cheeks and spread them apart. When he let the tips of his index fingers drag over his hole in unison, John let out a gasp and bit his bottom lip. With his lids heavy and half-closed and his head thrown back against the wall, John let out a low, extended groan and swore, “Fucking hell, Sherlock.”  He didn’t know whether to press forwards into the ghosting pressure of Sherlock’s warm breath or backwards towards those teasing fingers. He let out another frustrated groan and gripped Sherlock’s shoulders tightly.

 

When finally he looked down, he found Sherlock was already looking up at him from underneath those ridiculously long lashes. _The coy little fucker_ … thought John. He couldn’t help but smirk though, as Sherlock really was criminally sexy. A walking sex weapon. One that was pointed straight at him. And truth be told, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

Sherlock was being utterly guileless and was quite literally staking his claim. John was starting to worry about the probability of being pissed on by his two suitors. He should probably make it clear that he wasn’t into that sort of thing before Sherlock got any (more) ideas in his head.  He’d nearly formed an appropriately scathing remark when he was distracted by a muffled noise coming from across the room. All it took was one blink to break eye-contact with Sherlock and then his eyes and attention were torn away.

 

Shocked, he found himself staring open-mouthed at Mycroft and what a sight he made. He had taken a step or two towards them, had one hand tightly clenched around the edge of the kitchen table and his eyes were tightly shut. He looked utterly debauched, a complete mess. His hair was damp around his face. His tie was heavily askew and his cheeks flushed a deep red. His cock was straining quite noticeably against his fly and he had a fist pressed against his mouth. He was trying to stifle a moan—quite unsuccessfully.

 

 

If asked later, John would insist that his response was completely justified. He was merely human after all. He couldn’t help it. He was literally sandwiched between two very sexy, very aroused Holmes’. He groaned, whimpered even, and squeezed his own eyes shut. He further added to the growing lump forming at the back of his skull by knocking his head against the wall. However, he’d also inadvertently squeezed Sherlock’s shoulders in the process. That may have been what set Sherlock off.

 

Suddenly, there was a disturbingly animalistic snarl pouring out of Sherlock’s mouth and then he was standing firmly between John and Mycroft. He was obviously torn between an angry, defensive stance made up of hands-on-his-hips and a puffed-up-peacock chest and just physically throttling his brother. He settled for a stern ‘pointing at’ and an impressively loud shout, “Mycroft! _GET OUT!_ ”

 

It wouldn’t take all that much imagination to guess what happened next. Mycroft stumbled out of the kitchen and down the stairs in record time, only pausing at the lower landing to call for his car. Judging by the loud, door-frame shattering slam, Mycroft could only surmise that Sherlock managed to drag John off to his cave before thoroughly having his way with him.

 

Mycroft took several important facts away from the ‘kitchen encounter’.  One: he was undoubtedly attracted to John, Two: his brother was most definitely in love with John and Three: John Watson was most assuredly attracted to him. But most importantly, John was unabashedly aroused by being wanted by both of them and after seeing the lust in John’s face, Mycroft decided that a temporary retreat was in order. He needed time to formulate a plan.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a 'behind the slammed door' scene that should come after this but I probably won't post that until 'later'. It's that or I'll never be able to post the rest of the story... I'm getting too hung up on... well, things. I'll let you know when it's done :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John was panting above him. “That show in the kitchen had nothing to do with patience, Sherlock.” He challenged with a poorly raised brow. “You wanted him to watch,” he accused.
> 
>  
> 
> “Mmmmm,” was all the reply he gave which was fair, as his mouth was full of John’s cock.

**WHEN THEY WERE BARELY OVER THE TRESHOLD** Sherlock yanked impatiently on John’s hand, which threw him off balance and sent him stumbling through the door. He had a surprisingly firm grip and managed to spin John around with dizzying speed, landing him face first against the bedroom door. The weight of his solid form crashing into the door produced a monumental slam, which could be heard all the way downstairs in Mrs. Hudson’s flat. He had time for one ragged breath, and then John was being pressed into the door with Sherlock’s aching cock pressed firmly against his arse.

 

John, being nothing if not heroically adaptable merely groaned and arched his back, effectively tilting his arse. It made it much easier to push back against him. Sherlock was supremely pleased by John’s response and proceeded to press harder, rolling his hips and grinding just there — and then his cock was cupped between two perfect globes of muscular flesh and — _fucking hell —_ it felt good.

 

Sherlock was vibrating with excitement, eager as ever to _fuck_ and _be fucked_. But he reigned in his impatience and took a moment to savour, to catalogue and survey his work. John’s cheek was pressed against the dark wood of the door, his skin moist and flushed a lovely pink and the evidence of this racing pulse throbbed at his temple and throat. Both of their chests were heaving; every time John’s lungs expanded and filled with air his back pressed more firmly against Sherlock’s chest. John’s body was a beautiful machine, each tantalizing ripple of muscle a distraction — _achingly sensual — stimulating_ — ridges of sinew drew his eyes, his attention, all but begged for Sherlock’s mouth. All he could think was how much he wanted to touch and to taste.

 

John’s hands were pressed against the door as well, his palms planted at shoulder height. Sherlock shifted until their fingers were laced together against the door. John’s eyes fluttered shut and he sighed.  

 

Sherlock spoke into the crook of John’s neck. “I want you— _now_.”

 

John chuckled, “Then hurry up and take me,” he taunted, his words rough and breathless.

 

John received a growl and one solid, meaningful thrust for his cheekiness.

 

“I want to taste you, John.” The deep sexy rumble of Sherlock’s voice sent a thrill spinning through his blood. “You’re _mine_.”

 

“ _Christ_ , you’re possessive,” John managed with a glare over his shoulder.

 

“Yes,” he growled. “You’re just realizing this now?” he snarled derisively and then he latched on and bit. John flinched and his grip tightened around Sherlock’s hand. “Mmmmm,” Sherlock murmured. He apologized with a loose wet kiss and a languorous slide of his tongue and then he completely ruined the effect by whining and tugging impatiently on John’s track pants. “Get these damn things off …”

 

John grinned playfully. “Impatient are we?” he taunted

 

“ _Y e s_ ,” Sherlock hissed.

 

He was still scrambling at the drawstring, which had decided to tangle and knot instead of simply untying on demand. “Get them off now,” he growled again as he tore at them. “Dammit, there’s a knot.”

 

John chuckled and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He grabbed John by the upper arm and spun him around until his back was flush with the door. John received one hard, long, desperate kiss from his wild-eyed lover before he pulled back and shot an accusatory look down at John’s trousers. John leaned forward into the empty space, hovered just a hairsbreadth away from Sherlock’s swollen lips. With his index finger, he tilted Sherlock’s chin back up, demanding his attention and asked,  “Don’t you have something else you could be doing with that sinful mouth of yours?” The timing and tone were perfect, serving to renew Sherlock’s mental focus and determination.

 

Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock dropped to his knees. He kept their bodies in constant contact as he slid down to the floor. Then his attention shifted to the problem at hand. John couldn’t tear his gaze away from Sherlock’s face, as he distractedly alternated between biting and licking at his swollen bottom lip. All the while, nimble fingers got to work on the knotted drawstring. And the sight was fucking gorgeous. John bit the inside of his bottom lip and groaned deep in his chest. At this rate he wasn’t going to last. “Fucking hell… Sherlock, you look… Christ, its _criminal_   how fucking beautiful you are.”

 

Sherlock smirked up at him, obviously thrilled with the complement but his nimble fingers resumed their battle with the obstinate knot. It took only a moment more and then his face transformed; the determined scowl slipped away and a look of triumph took its place. “Ha!” he barked, doubly pleased now that the damn drawstring was out of the way and he was able to make quick work of John’s trousers.

 

Then suddenly, Sherlock’s mouth was on him and all he could feel was a scorching wet heat wrapped around his throbbing cock. His lips slid quickly—smooth and greedy—up and down the length of John’s cock and Christ Almighty, it was good— _he was_ good. It was all slick heat and constant motion. Sherlock was intensely watchful, as he bobbed up and down, taking John deeper and then pulling off with a torturously slow slide, full of agile tongue and a tight ring of lips—he was gauging his reaction, John realized. He’d never stop trying to make this better for John. He’s the _perfect_ fucking lover, thought John. Obsessive, focussed and determined. And he was all his.

 

“As you are neither,” he said, between sucks, returning to their previous line of conversation, “blind nor excessively stupid”, _suck_ , “you are perfectly aware”, _slurp_ , “that I am not,” _pop_ , “and never will be a patient man,” he kissed the tip and ran his tongue over the slit teasingly.

 

John was panting above him. “That show in the kitchen had nothing to do with patience, Sherlock.” He challenged with a poorly raised brow. “You wanted him to watch,” he accused.

 

“Mmmmm,” was all the reply he gave which was fair, as his mouth was full of John’s cock.

 

John grabbed hold of Sherlock’s hair and tugged gently, just enough to get his attention. “I thought—oh, fuck,” he gasped for breath as Sherlock’s tongue did a rather breathtaking swirl. “I thought you might actually resort to a full blown pissing contest with—“

 

“Don’t.” Sherlock pulled off with a loud wet _pop_. “Don’t say _h i s_ name in our bedroom. Especially while I’m sucking your cock, John.”

 

John pursed his lips into a thin, tight line (mostly out of concern but it also helped stave off a grin) and managed a slight nod. He was worried that the mood had been utterly destroyed but Sherlock proved him wrong when he resumed his enthusiastic suction.

 

Sherlock growled, pulling John’s hips forward, reeling him in, while nudging his legs wider apart with the crook of his elbow. He still had a loose grip at the base of John’s cock and his lips wrapped around the head. “Sherlock, I’m too close— _ah_ —” Whatever protest he might have made was cut off by Sherlock’s finger circling, slick with spit and smooth, over his entrance, then pressing in.

 

John gasped and threw his head back against the door in defeat. He was definitely going to cum. “Sherlock… Sher- _lock_ … Christ… stop—“ John was gasping, holding on by a thread.

 

“Why?” he asked, in between rather dramatic licks at John’s cock. “Why should I stop, John?” _Lick_. “Aren’t you enjoying yourself?” He twisted his finger as he pulled out, making John’s toes curl.

 

“Fuck. _Of. Course. I. Am_ ,” he gasped. “I just… don’t want to cum—yet.” He grabbed Sherlock’s head and tried to pull him off. “I want to be inside you.”

 

“Hmmm. Yes,” John gasped as Sherlock’s breath hissed over his still wet cock. “That’s the plan,” Sherlock arched a lovely brow. It was a devastating look. And more than a little terrifying. He knew that look. Trouble, that look meant trouble. “But I have a plan.” He smiled— _oh god, what now?_  “I think it would be best if you came _now_ , John. I have plans, for later,” he ran his nose up the length of his pulsing cock and stopped at the tip to place an obscenely wet kiss at the reddened crown. “I’m going to ride you… and I want you to last…” Sherlock trailed off, as if distracted by the skin under his tongue. “I’m going to ride you… like a pony? Yes, indeed. Like a pony. That’s the expression, isn’t it? And I want you to watch me fuck myself on your cock.” Sherlock’s eyes whipped up towards John’s face, the desperate gasp was enough to tear him away from the lovely journey his meandering tongue had chosen. John had his face buried under both hands and his head was thrown back against the door. With a wicked grin, Sherlock resumed his efforts to take John apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. So... I changed my mind. I couldn't not write it apparently. So, I hope you enjoyed the smut. There's more to come before we resume what little plot there actually is. Also, thanks to all of you wonderful readers who took the time to leave me comments. I love you all. You make me smile.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE SLICK WET HEAT of Sherlock’s mouth was the sweetest torture he could ever imagine. His heart was rabbiting, pounding so quickly that it felt like it could break through his chest at any moment.
> 
>  
> 
> He could just see the headlines… Trusty Blogger Dies with his Cock Out… Army Doctor Sucked to Death… 
> 
>  
> 
> He’d always thought that Sherlock would somehow end up getting him killed but death by blowjob? Well, he had to admit, it was a lovely way to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I have to say sorry for the [1] “ride you like a pony” bit in the last chapter (I just couldn’t help myself), [2] the obscene OOCness in general and [3] for how short this chapter is but it seemed like a natural ending point for the scene, emotionally as well as the… er… action.

**THE SLICK WET HEAT** of Sherlock’s mouth was the sweetest torture he could ever imagine. His heart was rabbiting, pounding so quickly that it felt like it could break through his chest at any moment.

  

He could just see the headlines _… Trusty Blogger Dies with his Cock Out… Army Doctor Sucked to Death_ … 

 

He’d always thought that Sherlock would somehow end up getting him killed but death by blowjob? Well, he had to admit, it was a lovely way to go.

 

He’d finally stopped fighting the inevitable, given himself over to the experience of pure sensation. He turned his gaze downwards to find Sherlock looking up at him, his expression one of pure hunger. He slid a hand into that raucous mess of hair and gently tugged on a handful of silken curls. God, his hair was a bloody mess. There’d be no hiding what they’d been up to.

 

“Oh God, please,” he begged. He was so close. “Sherlock I need to cum…”

 

Sherlock’s eyes glittered, the suction increased, as did the rhythmic stroking deep inside him. John was holding on by a thread. He just needed…  _there just there…_

“Oh fuck  _y-e-s_  oh, God I fucking love your mouth…” For a moment, every sensation seemed magnified, blurred together as it came to a peak and then his mind was imploding and he was flooded with heat, and pressure, and the deep coiling ache in his balls finally released. John sank to his knees with a groan and leaned forward until his face was nestled in Sherlock’s neck and his arms were wrapped around him. He inhaled deeply, breathing in Sherlock’s familiar scent. 

 

“That was…” John sighed into Sherlock’s overheated skin and pressed a kiss into it. “Amazing… as usual.”

 

“Mmmmm.” Sherlock stroked along the broad expanse of John’s back, enjoying the ridges and valleys of muscle and bone.

 

John pulled back, just far enough to find Sherlock’s lips. When their lips met, it was a gentle slip slide of lips, a caress. John pulled back and cupped his face reverently. “I do. I love your mouth. What you do to me... Christ. It’s unbelievable.” He placed a quick kiss there. “But I love _you_ , you great git. I love _you_ more than anything.”

 

Sherlock’s gaze was intense, loaded with desperation and fear. He swallowed, his throat and mouth suddenly quite dry. “I know…” he whispered. “I know. But I… how do you function? How am I supposed to function like this?”

 

“Sherlock? Sherlock… look at me. Listen. I know this is… new. And intense. And probably overwhelming—”

 

“—It’s not just that John. I see _everything_. I can’t stop it. I know that you’re attracted to him. I know that you want him and that he wants you. How can I unsee that? How can I function when I see everything you want to do with him? When I know he could give you things I can’t? I—“

 

“Sherlock just stop. Just stop a minute will you?” John tore through his mind for something that would derail Sherlock’s escalating panic. For a moment, they simply breathed the same air. “Sherlock… I am yours. I have been for… for ages. That is not going to change. You’re stuck with me alright?” He waited a beat for the quick jerk of Sherlock’s chin. “But I can’t stop being who I am.” He continued quietly, gently stroking Sherlock’s cheek with his thumb. “I will… I do… have… feelings—I do, I’m sorry, but I do. But that doesn’t mean that I’ll act on them, okay?”

 

“But John—“

 

“Do you trust me?” John cut him off.

 

“Yes. Of course,” he answered quickly, without any hesitation.

 

“I promise you. I am yours. And you are mine. I will always tell you the truth so you don’t have to try and see it by yourself. I promise.”

 

Sherlock managed a nod before he pulled John into his arms. They knelt there in silence, entwined, for several long moments, each hoping beyond hope that John’s promise was truly possible.


End file.
